


Exploration

by academy_x



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-02
Updated: 2016-08-02
Packaged: 2018-07-28 19:11:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7653373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/academy_x/pseuds/academy_x
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moist visits Adora's apartment for the first time and delights at looking at all her stuff. </p>
<p>
  <i>“You don't mind me looking around a bit?” Moist asks.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“Go ahead.” Adora says.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>She is smiling, so she definitely means it. Moist smiles too. He wants to explore everything.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Exploration

It's Moist's first time visiting Adora Belle Dearheart. She lives on the fourth floor. He takes the stairs two steps at a time. Moist is out of breath and dizzy, when he rings her doorbell. Adora opens the door, greeting him with a smile. She looks stunning. Moist takes a big gulp of air, but gets a mouthful of smoke instead. He coughs. Adora laughs, showing off her yellow teeth. She beckons him inside.

“Nice pants.” Adora says.

Moist mumbles his thanks. He'd worn his tightest pants on purpose, hoping she would like them. He had never expected it to work. He blushes and looks everywhere but at Adora. There's a pair of sensible, green rain boots in the corner. He fixates on them, counting the mud splatters. Moist is surprised to see them slouching in the corner. Adora always wears high heels, even at home. They make her a little taller than Moist, and he loves it. He's pretty sure Adora secretly loves it too.

He tries really hard to make conversation, even though the living room is calling to him. He wants to look under the couch cushions and pull out all the drawers. Moist was never the best with smalltalk. He has a tendency to invent freak showers of frogs when discussing the weather. He politely brings up sports instead, and Adora launches into a passionate monologue about football. Moist uses the time to leaf through her record collection. Her music tastes range from ABBA to obscure jazz records. He imagines the two of them lying side by side on the floor and listening to music, late at night. She would put on her favourite lp and explain to him why a record player is far superior to an ordinary cd-player. Moist smiles and saves the idea for later.

There is a loud meow. Moist jumps and turns toward the source. A scrawny cat is standing in the doorway to the kitchen. It glares at him with yellow eyes. The cat looks like what you would get if you chopped bits of ten different cats then stitched them back together with your eyes closed. It has one and a half ear and a nasty scar down its left eye. Its grey-ish fur is mangy and missing in several places.

The cat strides towards him. It walks asymmetrically, putting too much weight on the right side. Moist tentatively reaches down. He doesn't try petting it, doesn't move at all. The beast sniffs his hand. It rubs its head against his palm for a few seconds, then loses interests and stalks off. Moist lets out a breath of relief. He feels as if he has passed some test.

“I nearly forgot I got you something.” Moist says, trying to seem casual and not over-eager.

He stuffs both forearms into his bag, searching. Adora raises her left eyebrow. She always sees through him. It's relaxing and terrifying. Moist fishes out a lump wrapped in newspaper and hands it to her. She rips off the paper and smiles. Adora is holding a heavy, clay ashtray, clearly homemade. She turns it over in her hands. On the underside, etched into the clay, it says _Nina 04_.

“Made it yourself, did you?” Adora asks.

Moist shrugs. It wasn't that he had meant to take it, he had just coincidentally been at a school with dozens of them lying around, unused and forgotten. It had been like stealing from a child. Adora shakes her head in disapproval, but she's smiling. She puts the ashtray on the coffee table and stubs out her cigarette in it. Moist feels giddy and warm at the sight. The ashtray looks at home in the apartment.

“You don't mind me looking around a bit?” Moist asks.

“Go ahead.” Adora says.

She is smiling, so she definitely means it. Moist smiles too. He wants to explore everything. He sinks into the seat of her huge armchair. It's ridiculously comfortable. Adora has to give him a hand to get up. Moist moves on to the shelves, lined with books. The variety is interesting, nonfiction, how-to books, travel guides, dictionaries, detective novels and a surprisingly large amount of Donald Duck comics. Next, he stops to inspect a sad-looking cactus in the windowsill. It's more yellow than green and doesn't look like it has seen a drop of water in a year. Looking closer, he notices several cigarette butts in the soil. Adora apparently isn't the best with plants. He makes a mental note to avoid green gifts in the future.

Having looked at everything in the living room, Moist enters the tiny bedroom. The first thing he notices is the narrow bed, squeezed in between the wall and a huge closet. He sits down to test its bounciness. It's like sitting on a plank. He runs a hand over the sheets. They're stiff and rough. Hopefully he'll get to introduce Adora to the pleasures of a soft bed later. Specifically Moist's bed.

Moist jumps to his feet. He barely stops himself from rubbing his hands together in an anticipatory motion. Adora regards him with an amused expression. An unlit cigarette hangs from the crook of her mouth. In the excitement, she must have forgotten to light it. Instead, she grabs it and tucks it behind her ear. Moist opens her closet. It's filled with neatly folded piles of identical grey t-shirts and black jeans. He blinks twice, fascinated. He has suspected something like this since she always wears the same clothes. Nobody has ever looked that good in grey.

“You only have t-shirts, don't you get cold?” Moist asks.

Adora points to the top shelf and the folded grey hoodies lying there. Moist nods knowingly. He reaches out and touches one of the t-shirts. The fabric is thick, but soft. The clothes only take up half the closet, Moist realizes. The rest is drawers. He tries pulling one out. It's stuck, which only makes him more determined to get it open. He rattles it determinedly. It springs open. Inside are various trinkets that seems very out of character for Adora Belle Dearheart to own. He finds a bordeaux scarf, a lime-green beret, a hand exerciser, flashy jewelry, nail-polish and multiple trashy romance novels. Moist knows exactly how trashy they are because he has read and enjoyed them all.

“What is this?” Moist asks.

“Gifts. Never use them. Don't have the heart to throw them out.” Adora says.

One of the bottles of nail-polish is gold. It calls to Moist. He picks it up, watches the specks of glitter float inside the bottle. It sparkles in the light.

“Can I have this?” Moist asks. “Gold is my favourite color.”

Adora nods. She turns and leaves the room. Moist follows unquestioningly. They walk to the kitchen. It's clean and has blue. The table is from ikea. Adora makes coffee. She doesn't ask how Moist takes it, just serves it black. Moist takes a sip and nearly coughs it up again. It's bitter, tastes like biting into a pill. He schools his features into a neutral expression.

“Do you have any milk?” Moist asks.

“I'm lactose intolerant.” Adora says.

Moist nearly smiles. Any day where he learns something new about her is a good one. He fiddles with the bottle of nail-polish, watching the liquid inside slosh around. Adora finishes her coffee, and then drinks his. Moist doesn't mind. She lights her cigarette. He unscrews the nail-polish and begins painting his nails. Moist gets more nail polish on the skin than on the nail. At least he put down a magazine to prevent spilling on the table.

“Give it here. I have steady hands.” Adora says.

She has cold hands, but his skin grows warm where she touches him. Adora takes the brush and dips it, wiping off excess polish on the bottleneck. She makes broad, precise strokes. Moist watches, mesmerized. It's intimate and warm and good. His heart beats fast, and his brain is screaming at him to act. For once he stays silent.

Adora concentrates hard. Her brow is scrunched up, and she bites down on her cigarette. Ash drips on the table. They don't notice. When she's done, she looks up at Moist. She is smiling, but not in her usual toothy way. She tucks a stray hair behind her ear. It takes Moist time to decipher the signs and realize that Adora Belle Dearheart is nervous. He thinks it's adorable.

“Finished.” Adora says quietly.

Moist inspects her work. His fingernails shine golden. He smiles. Adora stubs out her cigarette and dumps it in the empty cup. She leans forward and kisses Moist. It's fast and impulsive. Her nose bumps against his cheek. They laugh and kiss again, softer this time, but with urgency. The only thing that thing that could make this better, Moist thinks, is if he could figure out how to touch her hair without smudging his nails.

**Author's Note:**

> one thing that didn't make the cut was the fact that adora is very good at applying nail-polish because she was a goth in highschool and wore black nail-polish every day ...


End file.
